A Measure of Solace
by NeverIsTheEternal
Summary: Richard Hale is dead and Margaret is faced with an uncertain future. When Mr. Bell proposes an alternative to living with her London relatives, Margaret is not the girl to say him nay. (Series based with book overtones, eventually Margaret/John Thornton)
1. A Shocking Proposal

**A/N: This was supposed to be a one-shot based on a crazy idea I had one evening rewatching Episode 3 while working on the next chapter of As Time Goes By. It gained a life of it's own. I'm not abandoning my other story, and I must beg those familiar with my other works not to judge me too harshly for this one. It's completely AU and the characterization is going to be slightly off due to the drastic emotional turmoil that this situation causes. It's primarily series based but my complete devotion to the book's characterization is going to heavily bleed through, especially in Mr. Thornton. Mr. Bell is completely based off the series. Please be warned that, unlike my previous stories, there are going to be themes expressed that are for a mature audience, but nothing graphic. I would like to thank my amazing reviewers, and those that follow me as an author. I hope this doesn't disappoint. I would also like to ask for you indulgence in the fact that I do not have a beta, so I would appreciate if you might mention glaring typos or word omissions that I may miss, and as always, please review. Of course, there is the obvious disclaimer: I do not own the world and characters created by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskill.**

The vast universal suffering feel as thine:  
Thou must bear the sorrow that thou claimst to heal;  
The day-bringer must walk in darkest night.  
He who would save the world must share its pain.  
If he knows not grief, how shall he find grief's cure?

Sri Aurobindo

There was nothing for it. He had promised his dearest friend that he would take care of her, and to that end, he would be damned if he allowed her to be carted off to London by relations who had absolutely no appreciation for that breathtaking mind simply because it was housed in a feminine body. He had ground his teeth but remained silent when the breathtakingly obtuse Mrs. Shaw, a paragon of the Ladies of London society, protested against Margaret saying farewell to the friends she had acquired, as if her 'old friends' should be the most important. He could still taste the blood from where he had bitten his tongue to refrain from defending poor Hale's decision to come to Milton and he had finally snapped over the admonishments when Margaret had insisted on keeping her father's books. The glare he received from that woman when he had stepped in could have curdled milk!

"Worry not, my dear Margaret," he had said, grasping her hand and patting it nervously. "I shall take the books with me to Oxford! There, they can rest near their owner."

The knowledge that Margaret wished her father's body to be returned to Milton, to be laid to rest beside his wife, was something impossible to realize since she could not afford to make the arrangement and obviously felt it an impertinence to ask it of him. His irritation with Mrs. Shaw had originated in overhearing his goddaughter make the request of her only to be met with astonished rejection.

"Your father should have died in Milton if he wished to be buried here," she had callously proclaimed, to the additional pain of her niece. As if that was not bad enough, she had the temerity to add, "Honestly, Margaret, I do not know what has gotten in to you. This rebellious independence with these presumptuous demands must not be brought into my home when we return to London! I expect the Margaret Hale that I helped raise into a proper lady, quiet and obedient. You must dispense with these wild notions at once! I understand that you are grieving, my dear, but you must focus on the truth that you have suffered greatly because of Richard's decisions and pull yourself together."

When Mr. Bell offered to seek a situation where Margaret might remain with him and spare Mrs. Shaw the inconvenience, he was regaled with Mrs. Shaw's ridiculous notions of impropriety; a bachelor scholar with no ties of blood relation, indeed. He did not care that some girl named Edith demanded Margaret's presence, nor how distressed this Edith person was in her time of confinement by this 'unfortunate business'. He certainly did not care for Mr. Henry Lennox and how glad he would be to have Margaret back in London. Margaret did not look pleased by this statement either. The fact remained that Mrs. Shaw effectively made carrying her back to Oxford with her father's books out of the question if she was to remain in good standing with the few relations she had left.

Again, there was nothing for it. He was simply going to have to marry the poor girl!

Getting Margaret alone to discuss his plan had been difficult. Mrs. Shaw hardly left her side, preferring to nap on the sofa while Margaret stared listlessly at the wall from the chair her mother had preferred. Whatever comfort she had derived from her aunt's presence had fled after the argument and she returned to much the same state as before that lady's arrival. Mr. Bell was hiding in the study after tea when she suddenly glided in like a pale ghost, pulled a chair close to the fire and curled herself within it, staring into the flames.

He desperately hoped that, even if she refused the plan, the very idea might shock some life back into her. Those dull, glassy blue eyes alarmed him greatly. Taking a deep breath and pulling his chair by the fire in front of her, he made short work of stating his case, unsure if she even heard him.

She had.

"Mr. Bell!" she cried in shock, wringing her hands and looking desperately about the room, at anything but him, bright crimson entering her cheeks and highlighting the underlying pallor in a ghastly way before the fire's warm glow. Still, her distress did not seem to reach her eyes, or if it did, some darker emotion eclipsed it.

"Come now, Margaret," he chided, "don't get hysterical. This would merely be a marriage of convenience. I could never ask you to be more than a wife in name only."

"Surely Father never intended..."

"He assigned me the task of your care, not your aunt or anyone else," tears streamed down her face, and he pitied the handkerchief that had found it's way into her taper fingers that was being violently twisted. "It won't be so bad, really! I'm an old man, my dear, hardly likely to see many more years..."

The mention of his eventual death only made her cry harder, seemed to force a retreat within herself and he patted her shoulder awkwardly, completely at a loss for how to sooth a woman in the grips of high emotion. There were no chapters in any of his books on how to accomplish this! If only there had been more female Greek poets. Surely they would have offered some instruction.

"You can keep this house," he insisted, "at least until we find one more suitable. I have a tenant that is vacating one of my properties and it would be ideal. His daughter is recently married and he wishes to return to the country. I'm sure that you and Dixon would find it pleasant and it's near the edge of town away from the merchant district. It will be far quieter, you shall not have to sell your parent's belongings, and when I visit..."

"Visit," she whispered, wiping her eyes and looking at him for the first time. "You would not be living with us?"

"Perhaps visit was the wrong word. I will certainly be here more often than is my want, but you cannot imagine that I might easily give up my bachelor ways or my glorious room in Oxford, surely! No, Margaret. You shall have to content yourself with an absentee husband and fill your days in whatever way you choose." A thought came to him and he added slyly, "except when we travel, of course."

"Travel?" A tiny spark of animation was slowly entering deep, dark eyes which had been alarmingly vacant until that point, and yet the words seemed to slip past her lips in the manner of a child slowly awakening yet stubbornly clinging to a dream.

He had baited the hook. She had nibbled. If he was patient and cunning enough, he might catch that spark and bring it wriggling to the surface.

"Yes, travel," he replied slowly. "Of course, I would not prevent you from traveling on your own. All that I have will be at your disposal. You can go to your relatives in London, on your own terms." The corner of her mouth quirked ever so slightly. "It would not be unseemly to visit your father's grave in Oxford as often as you wish. Together, we might visit the continent. I've a great longing to see Rome again."

The spark was brighter. He almost had her! He gave the line a final, gentle tug. "We might even go to Spain and visit your brother."

A great, shining light seemed to explode in her countenance, but to Mr. Bell's dismay it was the light of severe agitation.

"Frederick," she gasped, leaping from her seat, walking back and forth between Mr. Bell's chair and the fire, still violently twisting that poor little handkerchief. "He doesn't know! I haven't thought to write and..."

"It's already been taken care of," he assured her briskly, rising and taking her shoulders between his hands, stilling her movement. "I wrote to him on the train and sent it off straight away."

She raised her glistening eyes to his. Whatever she had expected from her third marriage proposal, this was definitely not it, but she could certainly see the merit. Mr. Bell painted a very pretty picture for her future, but there were also glaring flaws in the design. Glaring stormy eyes staring coldly at her out of a stern face set in marble.

'_I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over_.'

A different grief stabbed her, making her flinch as that voice tore through her memory as though the owner were standing in the room.

_'Oh, be still, little heart_,' her soul cried. _'He is lost to you and it is too late, far too late! Would Mr. Bell be such a poor choice when I have lost any hope of love before I could even acknowledge that hope? At least there is tender affection already existing between us. It is better than being so lost and alone!'_

Mr. Bell watched her anxiously, watched the thoughts race through her expressive eyes, was pained at the sight of a brief but terrible emotion that caused her arms to wrap around her middle as she nearly doubled over from the force of it. When it passed, she sighed deeply and straightened, turning her eyes to back to the fire.

"Can we leave Milton," she asked quietly, "at least until your tenant departs? Please don't misunderstand; I've been very happy in this house, but I have known so much suffering here. I cannot bear it without papa!"

"Where would you like to go, my dear girl?"

"Somewhere... alive."


	2. What Must Be Done

**A/N: Gisbatistella, your wish is my command. Many thanks to the readers who have already responded with positive hope for this story. KT8812, I hope I do your faith in my storytelling abilities justice.**

Ay, in the very temple of Delight  
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,  
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue  
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;  
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,  
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

John Keats

"Mr. Hale! Dead?"

Shock was an understatement. When Mr. Thornton was passing the temporary dining hall, installed in an unused out-building, the last thing he expected was to be called over by Nicolas Higgins with this disheartening news.

"Aye, maester. Died in his sleep, he did, mornin' afore yesterday," Higgins replied, sympathy and his own deep personal sorrow at the loss reflecting in the grave lines of his aging face..

Mr. Thornton raised troubled eyes to the weaver and friend. "And her?"

"Yo' mean Miss Marget?"

"Yes, Miss Hale, what of her? Do you know how she bears it?"

"I ha' not seen her, but I'm gi'en to understand hoo's to marry oud Mr. Bell. Some disagreement wi' those London relations, yo' see. She has nowhere else t' go."

Never in his life had John Thornton fainted, but he feared greatly that he would do so upon hearing this grievous news. The work yard tilted alarmingly beneath his feet and the buildings around him closed in on his vision. There did not seem to be enough air and it felt as though an icy hand with sharp claws had wrapped around his heart, attempting to pull it up through his constricting throat. His hand shot out and grasped the rough wood of the door frame to support himself.

"Win yo' come in, maester?" Higgins asked in concern, for all color had drained from his employer's face and the man fairly trembled from some deep, irrepressible feeling.

Mr. Thornton allowed himself to be led inside where he sank numbly onto the bench and leaned forward with his elbows supported on his knees, head in his hands. The men had grown accustomed to his presence and would normally have carried on as usual, but they bore witness to the obvious fact that their master was unwell and while the conversations did not cease in attempted courtesy of pretending not to notice, it became noticeably more subdued.

"Are you certain, Higgins?" he managed to say at last, looking up with pitiful hope at the weaver.

"I reckon it's th' truth," Higgins ran a hand nervously across the back of his neck where a cold sweat had sprung up out of fear for Mr. Thornton. "I heerd it fro' Mary but m'appen she were mistaken. It dunnot make no difference in th' end. Hoo's seen a deal o' sufferin' 'ere. If not him, them relatives 'ould cart her off and we'd ne'er see 'er again."

He was in no frame of mind to even question who these relatives were, only he remembered some aunt from the exhibition. '_Oh Margaret_,' his heart cried, '_if only you had accepted me! Where is your lover in your time of need, that man whom you risked so much for? I know you cannot love Mr. Bell in such a way! I know it! Was I such a poor choice that you could resign yourself to this fate?_"

"Win yo' ha'e sommat t' eat, sir," Higgins' voice broke through his tormented thoughts and he rose quickly, noticing the faces of his men, carefully avoiding meeting his eye for the first time.

They spun about him with the room as he slowly shook his head. "Not today, Higgins. I need to - it's not that I don't believe you. Please understand that I need to see into this myself."

Higgins frowned in contemplation as his master fairly staggered from the building. If the import of the old parson's death had been a blow, Mr. Thornton had reacted to the intelligence of Margaret's marriage as though he had driven a blade into his master's gut.

"I'll be nackered if he's not smitten wi' th' poor wench," he said quietly to himself, moving to the door to watch Mr. Thornton cross the courtyard and disappear through the heavy gates. He had not been given the chance to tell him that Margaret was no longer in Crampton. She had left with Mr. Bell for Oxford early that morning. He knew this because he had gone to learn what he could himself before his shift started and had just missed her.

* * *

"My mistress is not here, sir," Dixon shifted uncomfortably beneath the dark gaze of the man standing in the doorway. "Her poor father has died and she left this morning with Mr. Bell and her aunt. They are escorting Mrs. Shaw back to London before going to Oxford to bring Mr. Hale's body back."

"They are returning then?" For the first time in an hour, hope stirred in Mr. Thornton's heart, but that one hour had been filled with such all consuming despair the emotion felt strange and foreign, as though it had never before graced him with it's presence.

"Yes, sir," she had not moved from the doorway, had not invited him in. In her mind, there was no reason with the master dead and the mistress away. She could hardly offer him tea and leave him to his own devices. "Mr. Bell assured me they would return by tomorrow evening."

"Then so shall I," he turned on his heel and walked briskly down the bustling street, adding quietly to himself, "I must."

He walked the two miles back to Marlborough Mills incapable of seeing or noticing anything around him. When he reached the house, he took the stairs two at a time in his haste to reach the haven of his bedroom, did not even greet his mother as he passed the dining room, or even hear when she had risen from her seat and called his name. Bolting the door shut and throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face in his arms and wept.

Mrs. Thornton noticed immediately that something was terribly wrong with her son. She knocked gently on his door, softly called his name. There was no reply, only a muffled sound that she had not heard in over seventeen years, when he lay in his room away from prying eyes, crying in grief and anger for his father. He would not let her near him then. There was no reason to believe that he would do so now. She stepped back from the door and made her careful way back to her place in the dining room. He would confide in her when he was ready, but she prayed that it would not be long.

* * *

If Mr. Thornton could have known Margaret's thoughts as he trembled in prostrate grief within the safe confines of his room, he might have found a measure of solace. For Margaret, there was none as she blankly stared at the vicar at the alter of St Peter-le-Bailey church with sorrow filled eyes as he read the passages that would bind her to... her godfather? In her wildest imaginings, such a wedding had never occurred to her... especially one by special license. It was all happening so quickly!

What was she doing?

Was it not better to live her life alone but constant to her heart than submit to a marriage of convenience? But no, she would be a burden on her aunt and Edith's budding new family. She had no money, no other prospects. Mr. Bell would provide for her, not ask any more from her than she had given to her father. Her poor papa, lying forever silent in his room not ten minutes away, being made ready for his last train ride to Milton where he could be laid to rest beside his wife, the lady he had loved, the lady who had been able to return that love.

'_Mr. Thornton, even now I hope that you might forgive me_," she cried silently, a tear slipping unnoticed from her shining eye and sliding down to the frozen but weak smile she had barely managed to put in place upon approaching the alter. "_I have wronged you in so many ways, but none worse than this. I cannot go back and cannot see the way forward, but if you could forgive me life might be bearable again!_"

"Do you take this man..." she heard the vicar drone.

"I do," she replied in a voice as cold and dead as her father, before the startled parson had finished the vow, adding quietly to herself, "I must."


	3. Woes of the Desolate Mourner

**A/N: The funeral excerpts were pulled from The Order for the Burial of the Dead found in The Book of Common Prayer on . **

_Ah, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,  
Or summer succeed to the winter of death?  
Rest awhle, hapless victim! and Heaven will save  
The spirit that hath faded away with the breath._

_Percy Bysshe Shelley_

'_Would this please you, papa?_' Margaret thought, once more entering a church, only this time in Milton, moving numbly through the ceremony of her papa's funeral. It was the first time she had left the house since returning two days before, the third time she had even left her room, adamant that she be allowed to attend the funeral. How Mr. Bell had arranged the wedding so quickly was a mystery that she didn't care to figure out, only she had been grateful that it was over and even more grateful that he had left her alone on the train ride and in the house at Crampton.

_We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord..._

It was very late at night when she had quietly stolen out of her refuge and crept to the room where her father was laid out. It had been impossible to sleep and she only wanted a moment alone with him, to talk to him. She remembered Dixon admonishing him for speaking to his wife as though she were still alive, while she had lain in this same room, this same bed, but at this moment she understood what drove him to do so. One last time to speak to that beloved face before it was gone forever, leaving behind the heavy and nearly unbearable weight of loss and loneliness.

_Comfort us again now after the time that thou hast plagued us: and for the years wherein we have suffered adversity. Shew thy servants thy work: and their children thy glory..._

With gentle stealth, she made her way to the door and pushed it open, willing it not to make a sound, filled with dismay when she discovered Mr. Bell had the same inclination. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, hand resting over her father's, head bent... silently weeping. It was impossible to discern the words he was murmuring, nor had she any wish to. Just as silently, she stepped away and returned to her room, shaken by the sight of her godfather's... her husband's grief. It was the first she had seen of it.

_O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law..._

She had learnt from Dixon that Mr. Thornton had come... twice. The sharp blade of hope cut her to the core at the idea that he might still care for her, care enough to attempt to comfort her, to express his regret at her loss. Of course, it was a vain injury. It was his loss, his regret. Her father had been his dear friend and he only wished to know when the funeral would be, if there was anything he could do to assist with the arrangements. It had not been necessary to leave the safety of her room, to go down and face him, to have to bear witness to his indifference in the face of her suffering and long only to speak to him, to ease the burden of her heart and tell him why she had lied, if only to make room within for the growing pressure of awareness in the loneliness of her existence.

_Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take until himself the soul of our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust..._

It felt as though a great chasm had opened within her heart and she was falling through it with no sight of there being an end. If there was even a measure of solace, it was that she might find occupation and distraction in caring for Mr. Bell though there was still a lingering fear that he might change his mind now that he had secured her, that he might find in the situation a means to produce an heir since he had no family. The idea had never occurred to her conscious mind but she had dreamt it when sleep finally claimed her after a quiet evening alone with her tears, dreamed that he sat in a chair before the fire outlining the new plan, informing her that it was the least she could do for his care. She had always wanted children, but when she closed her eyes and tried to picture them, it was not her eyes or Mr. Bell's that gazed back at her from the small faces peering out from her imagination.

_Lord, have mercy upon us._

If only she could speak to her father once more, hear his voice, see into his gentle eyes and bear witness to the spirit that lived behind them, that had gone from this earth forever! What would she ask him? If she had known how this would end, would she have confided in him the terrible truth about the night Frederick left them? She had confessed her rejection of Mr. Thornton, but could she have ever been able to admit to her father that her heart had changed? How foolish she had been, trying to protect him! Frederick. Her poor papa. All from this! From additional worry and care which had already taken such a great toll that she worried so for his health, all in vain. There was no philosophical wisdom to gleen, no tender sympathy for her broken heart which had always been soothed when he read to her. Not a single tear had fallen between the church and the procession to the hillside where he would end his long journey, but now they fell in great cold drops as a single realization struck forcefully upon her, the one thing that she would despair of the most in her father's absence, the one thing she longed for and nothing would ever offer the same comfort... for she would never hear him pray again.

_The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. __Amen**.**_


	4. Hopeless Revelations

**A/N: Thanks again to my wonderful reviewers, and for those who read but don't ring in, I hope you keep coming back. I had more time today, so here's a longer chapter to make up for my inability to post over the weekend. I am not ashamed to admit that this was pretty difficult to write. I kept having to stop and have a good little cry so I'd dearly like to know what you think. I don't believe that I've ever been as emotionally invested in a story that I've written as this. **

_This living hand, now warm and capable_  
_Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold _  
_And in the icy silence of the tomb, _  
_So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights _  
_That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood _  
_So in my veins red life might stream again,_  
_And thou be conscience-calmed–see here it is–_  
_I hold it towards you._

_-John Keats_

"Mrs. Bell?"

With thoughts a million miles away, the early evening found Margaret kneeling by a patch of wildflowers, choosing the brightest blooms to place on the grave between her parents. It would have been a beautiful late summer afternoon if not for perpetual haze in the air and the dark clouds overshadowing her heart. After the funeral's conclusion, she had been unwilling to return to the house, relieved when Mr. Bell patted her arm and moved on without a word to speak the vicar. It surprised Margaret, pleasantly, how many people had come to pay their respects. It had seemed to her that their coming to Milton had changed little, that her father had left this world without leaving behind any of his gentle influence on these people, that they would go about their lives as though he had never been, never marking his passing. During the service, she had been so lost in her thoughts that she hardly took notice of anything save the wooden casket that held her beloved papa, but afterwards, when she raised her eyes from the open grave, there were many faces looking around with glistening eyes; some familiar, some whom she had never seen. Nicolas was there, once more wearing his one article of mourning -the cap with the bit of black fabric- Mary at his side with the oldest Boucher child, Tom.

Of course, Mr. Thornton had also been there. Her eyes never actually beheld his presence, but she could sense him, feel the heavy weight of his gaze upon her during the service and on the journey up the hill. He did not speak to her, nor did he seek her out, and this only served to increase her sorrow. She longed for the comfortable familiarity of his voice, for him to hold out his hand for her to take, in the old way, and to see the mark of sympathy in his eyes that would prove he cared, just a little, if it was only in memory of his departed friend. Such a small thing to desire, but she felt the comfort from such a simple act might ease the pain, might allow her to believe they could move on from the past and at least be civil friends. It was not to be, for he would never forgive her. She deserved as much, especially now.

So lost was she in these thoughts, tucking bits of trefoil and cornflower between several poppies, that she firmly believed the voice addressing her by an unwelcome name was in her mind. Margaret possessed many facets to her temperament, but never had she been insensible. She refused to jump at voices that were only a product of stressed nerves on her imagination. Especially when it was the deep, heavily accented notes that her heart was actively wishing to hear.

Mr. Thornton stood several paces behind her, watched as she a flowers to the growing bouquet. She hadn't answered him and irritation flared, unseen, in his eyes at the perceived slight but perhaps she was lost in thought and had not heard him.

"Mrs. Bell," he tried again, a hard edge in his voice.

He had gone by the house in Crampton as promised on the night she returned from Oxford, only to be met by Mr. Bell, informing him that his wife was sick and unable to entertain them. The casual term of wife caused Mr. Thornton to feel quite ill himself. There was an overwhelming sensation of being late, far too late, and had missed out on a great opportunity. That was ridiculous, of course. He had been refused. She loved another, someone who was conspicuously absent, leaving her to this strange fate. The feeling continued to persist, however, and he realized that, even now, he could not let her go. Not completely. If all he could be was her friend, he would give her that. Give himself that. In memory of her father and to satisfy that consuming need in his very soul to simply be in her presence. So he had waited, if not patiently, then with an iron determination to give her time, but when he saw her kneeling by the path, alone on such a day as this, he could not waste the opportunity to speak to her. Only there was still no reply, though he could visibly see her stiffen as her hand seemed to freeze in it's motion of reaching for another blossom. It caused him pain that this was how things now stood between them, that he no longer seemed to deserve the courtesy of acknowledgement in her eyes, and he was about to walk away, to quietly accept her rejection, when he finally heard her voice, quiet and hoarse, address him.

She had meant to ask him not to call her Mrs. Bell. Not today, when it was so terribly important that she be a Hale. She had meant to ask after his mother and sister. She had meant to say so many other things than the words that slipped quietly from her trembling lips.

"It was my brother," she said softly, rising but still unwilling to turn and face him. Unwilling to discover that the persistent voice was indeed in her mind, that she was standing on a hillside above Milton with a bunch of flowers in her hand, talking to herself.

"I beg your pardon?" he stepped closer so he could better understand her. Certainly he had misheard. She did not have a brother.

"The man at the train station," she lifted her eyes from the flowers to stare at the town laid out before her, quietly exhaling the relieved breath she had been holding. "He is my brother, Frederick."

For the second time that week, it felt as though the world were sliding precariously beneath his feet. "Why did not you... or your father...," he took another step toward her, relieved when the ground did not give way beneath him, came to stand close behind her, so close he could catch the subtle hint of lavender in her hair but still far enough away to maintain a semblance of decorum. It was necessary for she was speaking so quietly that each word threatened to be carried away unheard by the breeze.

The story that met his straining ears was shocking. He was grieved anew for his recently departed friend, the father of this son who had gone so far astray in the world by trying to do what was right. He was grieved for the woman before him who had risked her reputation and compromised her strict moral code to protect someone she loved. He was grieved by her cry that her brother could not be there, that he did not know, that in a few weeks he would learn the news by a post that was not written in her hand and must share in this burden alone, as she was.

And he was shamed. That emotion overwhelmed all else as he remembered his harsh words to her, realizing that he had spoken falsely that day... that fateful day when he had presumptuously asked for her hand and in the torment of her rejection had said that he understood her completely before walking away. If he had ever understood her at all, he would have remembered her own words when she referenced the strike, '_I would have done the same for any man there_'.

She had thrown herself between him, risking her life and reputation to do what she believed to be right for a man she hardly knew, for a man she could barely tolerate! Should it surprise him that she would go to such drastic lengths for someone who actually had a claim on her heart?

"So you see," she finally turned, looking up at him with pleading eyes, "it was best not to involve you, being a magistrate. It wasn't that father and I didn't trust you. It was simply out of the question to impose on your kindness by asking you to go against the law you're sworn to uphold."

"Why are you telling me this now?" he inquired gently. "Why now and not after you learned of my involvement when you lied to the Inspector?"

Her fingers, which had been busy smoothing her skirt, tightened on a fold only to began twisting it. She did not reply.

"Margaret!"

Her eyes snapped up to his and she dropped the fabric that threatened to tear beneath the onslaught of her agitation.

"Because father is dead," she dully replied. "I never told him, you see. He never knew that any events transpired at the station beyond the fact that Frederick got on that train. Short of coming to the mill and explaining the situation to you, there was never a moment in our interaction where I could tell you without him hearing and I couldn't bear to face his disappointment. No, that's not true. He could hardly be more disappointed in me than I am in myself. It was the additional worry it would invoke that I could not face. We still had not heard that Frederick was safely out of England. By the time we had... well, you had made it clear that you wished to hear no more on the subject."

He nodded in mute understanding, wondering if she could read the guilt in his eyes even as he scrutinized her countenance with a furrowed brow, taking in her dry but weary eyes and slumped posture. Never had he seen a creature so altered and a terrible fear that this strong woman, the strongest he had ever known besides his own mother, might break under her burden, gripped his heart. Dear God, but he loved her. He would always love her and now she was forever beyond him. The wife of another, bound to a man that he felt was even more unworthy of her youth and vivacious temperament, her stubborn devotion and quick intelligence, than himself.

"Thank you for finally telling me," he sighed. "Would you allow me to accompany you home? It is growing late."

She gestured weakly to the tiny bouquet. "I must put these on papa's grave before we go."

"Of course."

An uncomfortable, heavy silence accompanied them as they made their way across the hill.

"Mrs. Bell, I must congratulate you on your wedding," he began, his own voice betraying him as it cracked on the last word.

"Please don't!" Margaret cried, beginning to tremble as the icy numbness which had begun to crack beneath the relief of confidence was being strained to the breaking point by emotions the presence of the man at her side invoked. A glance at his face told her that he was confused and she took a deep breath before attempting to explain. What could she say? It would be unfair to Mr. Bell's reputation to disclose the true nature of their marriage.

"Please don't call me that," she added weakly. "I am no longer Miss Hale but I am not yet Mrs. Bell. It is strange and unfamiliar to hear. Today, I am no one's wife. I am the daughter of Maria and Richard Hale and I am laying my father to rest."

"May I call you Margaret, then?" he asked, observing her intently from the corner of his eye.

"You already have, just a moment ago," she tenderly placed the carefully selected arrangement in the spot between the grassy mound of her mother's resting place and the bare, freshly turned earth of her father's. "I truly don't mind, especially today when I need a measure of familiarity. Today, I need to simply be Margaret."

They stood in companionable silence, each saying goodbye to the man who's tender spirit had meant so much to each of them, before turning away in accord and making their slow, silent way down the path. When she tripped he offered his arm, and she tilted her chin in unconsciously regal consent before threading her arm through the crook. The silence that accompanied them was less oppressive than before though it still weighed on them, making their steps slow and heavy.

"Margaret?"

"Yes, Mr. Thornton?"

"You have given me your confidence, on this sad day when your thoughts might have - understandably - run in any other vein than past misunderstandings," his fingers ran nervously over the chain of his pocket watch. "Would it be an impertinence to make one more inquiry; to request your confidence on one other matter?"

"You would ask me why I chose to marry Mr. Bell while my father lay dead, yet to be buried." It was a statement, not a question, the rumors already reaching her on the blatant disregard of propriety in such things, more than rumors for she had heard plenty from her aunt. How would Mrs. Thornton react? Surely the woman would not come to her home with another lecture prepared. Margaret couldn't bare facing that woman again if, one improper action accounted for, she must face her on another which was far less excusable.

"I would ask why you chose to marry him at all," his tone sounded harsh, even to his own ears. He hadn't meant to be argumentative, but before he could apologize she was speaking.

"He is a good man," she said in a choked voice, surprised, fully expecting him to be disappointed in her for a perceived lack of respect for her dead father, not for the action itself. One she could defend against, the other...

"A good man who has been a bachelor for so long he cannot possibly be expected to act as anything else. You will not be a wife but a devoted little house maid, stirring the fire, making his tea, and listening to his diatribes on pagan lore and the merits of having a delicate constitution! Margaret, how could you consent to waste your life in such a way?"

Her wide, startled eyes filling with tears shamed him. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to reign in his emotion.

What did he mean, waste her life? Did he not understand that all she needed to be content was someone to care for? There was so much more that she wanted, that if she could have just reached out and taken it would have brought her no end of happiness, but she had never been greedy. She would learn to find what happiness she could in her situation, and thank God for it!

"Forgive me," he murmured. "I had no reason to speak as I just did."

"Please, Mr. Thornton," she said earnestly, stepping toward him, "let us forget the past and go forward anew as friends. It's what papa would have wanted."

She held her hand out to him, praying he would take it, needing, more desperately than she would dare admit, the brief contact, but he did not notice the gesture until it was too late, until she dropped her hand at her side and turned away.

"I do not understand why you are so upset," she continued in a careless, casual tone, though her weary posture straightened in haughty defiance of the weight of rejection with threatened to carry her to the ground. '_Please God, not in front of him._' It had been a very long time since he had seen any semblance of passionate emotion blaze in those eyes, but it was there now, reflecting in the sudden bitterness of her tone. "You have informed me, with no possibility of mistaking the sentiment, that any '_foolish passions_' on your part were extinguished. Why do you care who I've married, or why?"

He flinched as though she had slapped him. It certainly felt like a positive, physical strike. She did not miss the reaction to her words, or the profound despair that flickered briefly in his eyes, tightened his mouth to a thin line and she shook her head in denial of what she saw.

"You said..."

"I know what I said," he bit out, turning away from her. "If you'll excuse me, it's late and I need to get home. I'm sure you can make your own way and I have wasted enough of your time. Good evening, Miss... Mrs... Good evening."

She stared at his back in confusion as he said these words. Heaven's mercy, was he running away... from her?

"Mr. Thornton," she cried breathlessly, the moment he took the first step away from her.

He turned on his heel and faced her with arms folded across his chest and she was prepared to meet the full force of his proud glare with quiet determination... only there was no glare, no irritation. The quiet despair in his eyes, the longing written plainly on his countenance, remained and it startled her, stole her breath. Of all the things she could have said, and he expected her to say plenty - to rebuke him, laugh at him- the last thing he expected was for her to timidly approach him, lay a hand his arm, and look up at him with grave, tear filled eyes.

"You still care for me?"

He couldn't understand all of what he was seeing in her eyes, in the tears that filled them but did not spill over, but he recognized sadness, and resignation, and... horror?

She took a step back from him... then another.

"I'm sorry," she stammered.

The words must be meant for him, but there was something in the way she said them that sounded like a plea to heaven. He reached out for her, alarmed at the blind panic etched across her face, intending to comfort her in some way, but she back away further, head tilted to the rising moon.

"Forgive me," she whispered brokenly before spinning away from him. "Please God, forgive me!"

It was she who ran.


	5. No Longer Would She

**A/N: This is a somewhat lighter chapter. Some of my reviewers were right in how exhausted I was after the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one and please review. A longer chapter is on the horizon. Not to hold my chapters hostage or anything, but the greater response, the more inclined I am to get these up quickly. Yes, I am aware that I am another in a long list of writers shamelessly plugging reviews. ;)**

_Unchanged within, to see all changed without,  
Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt.  
Yet why at others' Wanings should'st thou fret ?  
Then only might'st thou feel a just regret,  
Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light  
In selfish forethought of neglect and slight._

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

Margaret stood on the tiny porch, hand pressed over her heart, gulping air. The sudden notion that Mr. Thornton might have followed her caused her head to whip around and scan the busy Crampton street but there was no sign of that tall, formidable presence. He was on the hillside beside the cemetery where she had left him, where his legs finally gave way beneath him and he collapsed, drawing them into his chest as great sobs wracked his form. Any who saw him might believe he grieved for one who was buried nearby, but no one bore witness to this or heard the name that whispered past his lips with every exhalation of breath.

All of this was unknown to Margaret, as she turned to the door, running her fingers beneath her eyes to rid them of the last of her tears before entering. The house was eerily silent. Dixon was not in the kitchen, the sitting room was empty, as was the bedrooms. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door of her father's study. Dixon was sitting in a chair by the door, head leaned back against the wall, snoring softly. A teacup sat upon a saucer, trembling precariously on her knee. Taking the dish, she set it on the mantle and turned to the large stuffed chair facing the fire, which had been her father's favorite, which now housed her husband as he stared into the crackling flames, the worn leather bound tome of Plato open upon his lap.

"Adam?" she whispered, approaching him tentatively.

Startled, watery blue eyes snapped up to hers. Eyes that were usually so keen and clear.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "Mr. Bell no longer seems appropriate in light of..."

"As it should be," he smiled, though there was pain in the expression. "Don't worry so! You startled me, my dear. I have not heard my Christian name uttered by a female voice since my mother, and she has been dead for decades."

"Then you don't mind?"

"Of course not!" he patted the arm of the chair beside him, the chair Mr. Thornton usually occupied. A tiny sigh escaped her as she realized these old customs were as dead now as her little family. No longer would her father and Mr. Thornton sit in this room reading until late in the evening, no more would she pour tea for them while trying to figure out the confusing manufacturer who was so hard and cold in manner yet so gentle and passionate in human feeling.

"What is it, Margaret?" Mr. Bell's voice broke through her thoughts and hastily perched on the edge of the cushion.

"I was just thinking of days past," she managed a watery smile, "but there is something that I wished to discuss with you."

He raised an eyebrow in anticipation of her question.

"When can we leave for Spain?"

His laugh sounded strange and foreign as it rang through the haze of sorrow that seemed to permeate the walls of the room. "You've decided that we're going to Spain, then? Splendid! When I asked you before, you mentioned some place alive. I feared that you would wish to go to Helstone. Not that I would mind making that journey, but I believe you need more time before facing your past, dear girl."

"It's just that...," should she tell him about her encounter with Mr. Thornton? No. That was a private memory and she wanted to keep that secret close to her heart. "I can't bear the thought of Fred learning of Father's death and being alone. I should like to get to him as soon as possible."

"Then I shall write to my servant in Oxford immediately and have him meet us in Liverpool! We can leave as soon as you wish, but I would ask you to give me tomorrow to wrap up some of my affairs."

"Of course," she turned to the door and a gentle smile curved her mouth at the sight there.

"Dixon," she called, softly.

The nodding head snapped up as Dixon attempted to catch a falling teacup that was no longer there.

"Yes, mistress?"

It was difficult not to chuckle at the sight of her lady's maid attempting to look composed and natural, as though she had not been fairly drooling a moment before. The sensation startled Margaret, who had come to believe she might never laugh again.

"Mr. Bell and I are leaving for Spain in a day or two. I was hoping that you might accompany us."

"Oh no, Miss Margaret," she cried. "I couldn't! Now don't be mistakin' me. I would dearly love to see Master Frederick and meet the new young master, but they might try to convert me and what then?"

Mr. Bell's laugh once more rang through the room as he cried, "Heavens, Dixon... are you so insecure in your faith that you fear the great Church of Rome might shake it? Come now, be a dear and see to your mistress. She will need a lady's maid in these travels and there is no one that I can trust to her care but you."

Dixon puffed up in pride, pleasure at the compliment making her blush. She had never liked Mr. Bell. In her opinion, he was a bad influence on her mistress with his pagan ideals and free, careless speech. There had not been a worse match since her dear Lady Beresford had married Mr. Hale, but if he was taking her to Spain to see her brother, he couldn't be all bad, and perhaps he might leave Margaret with her brother. That meant she would probably have to stay as well.

"Now Dixon," Margaret joined the argument, saying gently, "you know Frederick was only tempted away from the Church for love. He has come to believe in it, to be sure, but had it not been for Dolores, he would never have even considered exploring that path. I believe you are quite safe."

"Unless your heart is stolen by some handsome, Spanish butler, I firmly believe you to be impervious to the danger," Mr. Bell teased, and Dixon surprised them both by smiling wistfully.

"Aye, sir," she said, rising and straightening her skirts so she wouldn't have to meet their eyes. "That might be sufficient temptation, but if Miss Margaret needs me, I'll go to the end of the world and face the Catholics and even heathens if necessary."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll have your fill of heathenry dealing with me, I'm afraid. I'm an old scholar with too much knowledge and not enough sense, as old Hale used to tell me."

He smiled fondly at the memory and there was something in his expression that caught Margaret's attention, but she couldn't explain what it was.

"Well, Miss," neither one chose to correct Dixon, who still had a difficult time accepting the marriage, "If you won't be needing anything else tonight, I'll take meself off to bed. It seems that I have a busy two days ahead of me if I'm going to pack us up for such a long journey."

When they were alone, Margaret grew unaccountably shy. There was nothing in her companion's manner that made her so, except she remembered that terrible dream.

"Mr. Bell," she began, startled when he frowned at her and raised an eyebrow, sighing when she understood his exasperation.

"Adam," she began again, "when I agreed to marry you..."

"Spit it out, child," he cried, after it became clear she could not continue, leaning forward and taking her hand. "I assure you, there is nothing you can say that I feel I might not already anticipate. Allow me the pleasure of your confidence. I cannot replace your father, but I will be as true a companion as you could wish for."

"Of course," she stammered. "It's just that, I was not myself when I agreed to this. Everything seemed so hopeless at the time and I didn't have the presence of mind to think beyond getting my father home and laying him to rest. I could not think about my future in the misery of the present, but I'm much more myself tonight and there are things that I wish to discuss."

It was the first time since he had arrived in Milton and imparted the dreadful news to her that she had looked at him with such clarity of mind and emotion. The dear girl who had a claimed his heart was shining out of her eyes and he felt that all might actually be well in time. He knew her to be a strong girl, so unlike either one of her parents. Her level of suffering at this loss had alarmed him, fearing this had finally broken her indomitable spirit, but he had never been happier to be mistaken. She would weather this and be all the stronger for it.

"If we must have a serious discuss, I regret that Dixon has gone to bed. I should like a cup of tea."

* * *

The moon had risen high over Milton and still Mr. Thornton sat on the hillside, beside the cemetery, lost in the desolation of his thoughts. If he hadn't of judged her so harshly, been so consumed by jealousy, would he have been able to witness the moment when her heart had changed? Could he have saved her from this bleak future? How she must have suffered, unable to tell him the truth while quietly accepting his rebukes, his coldness! His own suffering was nothing in comparison to the misery he must have caused her. Was this the reason she had accepted Mr. Bell, because she felt him lost to her? What a cruel twist of fate this was!

He cursed himself for falling victim to base emotions. He cursed Mr. Bell for taking her from him. He curse Margaret for being weak and then he cursed himself again for thinking such a thing. Margaret had never been weak. Even a strong woman had a right to her grief, had a right to make whatever decision was best for her continued survival in this cruel, unforgiving world. It was entirely his fault; he was responsible if she felt she had no other choices.

With a heavy heart, he made his way slowly home, unsurprisingly noticed the candles burning in the dining room and mothers pensive face staring out from the window. She was waiting for him in the doorway as he dragged his steps up the stairway.

"Heavens, John! Where have you been?" she cried, pulling him into the house. "I expected you home hours ago!"

"Please mother," he replied wearily, "it's been a long day. I would like to retire."

"Of course," she nodded. "Just one thing, if you please? How is Miss Hale?"

"Mrs. Bell, you mean," he said darkly, turning his back to her and moving down the hall toward his room. "She has been recently married."

"Surely not!"

"Goodnight, mother," he sighed, reaching his room and closing the door on the conversation, on her, on the day.


	6. Tea and Sympathy

**A/N: I want to thank everyone for their lovely reviews. It makes me happy like tiny bubbles that you're enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. I'm sorry that I don't have the time to reply to each of you individually, but I read everything and often you bring tears to my eyes with your amazing thoughts and wishes for how this turns out. Please continue to tell me what you think. **

_And tho' thou notest from thy safe recess_  
_Old Friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air,_  
_Love them for what they are ; nor love them less,_  
_Because to thee they are not what they were._

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

"If we must have a serious discuss, I regret that Dixon has gone to bed. I should like a cup of tea."

"Then come down to the kitchen with me and I'll prepare some. If you leave me alone for any amount of time, I fear I might lose my nerve."

"Yes, quite so," he said, unfolding himself from the chair and rising; taking her hand and helping her up as well. He looked around and an inexpressible sadness that seemed to reflect the sorrow in Margaret's own heart bled into his eyes as he said quietly, "We can talk there as easily as anywhere; perhaps more easily for memories linger about this room, threatening to intrude with every breath."

In the kitchen, he took Dixon's chair by the fire while Margaret stirred the embers into a high flame and put the kettle on. In spite of her wish to talk, she remained silent while moving about the kitchen, fetching cups and pouring the steaming water into the teapot, slicing some bread and cheese since her stomach forcefully reminded her that she had not eaten all day. When had she last eaten?

Mr. Bell watched her with ill disguised pleasure. He had never regretted not having children until he saw Margaret again several months ago. In her was everything he had wished in a daughter, if he had ever thought about it. Her quiet devotion to his dear friend touched the tender loneliness in his heart that he tenaciously avoided contemplating. It had been a fond dream of his since Maria had died to have Richard come live with him in Oxford, that they might find a small house and have quiet evenings of discussion while Margaret moved about, as she was now, seeing to their comforts and adding her own unique perspective to topics that most women found to be such a trial to hear.

She made short work of the preparations and he joined her at the table, deeply regretting that Richard was not there now. The events of the past week had gone by in such a blurr of anxiety that he barely had time to contemplate the emptiness left behind by his friend's passing; an emptiness so profound that he could not believe it had escaped his notice. It seemed that any moment might bring that tender, tremulous voice calling down the stairs to them, or that Richard might walk through the door and apologize for his tardiness as he removed his coat and hat, joining them at the table and partaking of the tea and plate of offerings that Margaret had prepared. His wide, honest eyes, eyes that stared at him from Margaret's face, in the confident expectation of being allowed comfortably into their discussion.

It was not to be, and Margaret was setting her cup carefully in the saucer as she prepared to ask him some difficult question that he wasn't as certain, as he had assured her, that he was prepared for.

"What do you expect from me, Mr. Bell," she said suddenly, staring into her teacup, unable to meet his eyes. Was she blushing?

"I believe it's more a matter of what you might expect from me, my dear," he said carefully, watching her intently. "What has happened to distress you? I've already given my assurances that I will expect nothing more from you than what I might expect from my own daughter. You have a far greater demand on me."

"It's just that...," she sighed. Stammering over the topic wasn't going to make it any less difficult to say. "I hardly thought about what it all might mean, after the fact. It's true that I had no wish to live with my aunt, as much as I adore her and Edith. They can be very judgmental of my natural sense of independence and I've never enjoyed the society they would inevitably drag me into. They have moved on from the life we knew together when I was young, but I'm no longer young. I feel quite old, in fact."

He laughed at this, but she pressed on. "I've moved on as well. I have no place in their world, but my world no longer exists. None of them exist! I'm no longer Edith's companion, or the vicar's daughter. I feel rather like Odysseus, lost at sea and desperate for home with nothing but trials before me. When you said that I might remain in Milton, that I wouldn't have to leave the life I've grown accustomed to, that things were not to change as drastically as my imaginings foretold... well, I would have agreed to nearly anything for that comfort."

"Margaret, my girl," he twisted the teacup around in it's saucer, "I fully expected you to regret your decision once you came to yourself, but I still do not believe there was any other choice."

"I try to live my life without regrets, but of those few I have, this is not one of them," she insisted. "I remember your arguments very well and those facts still hold true. It's only that... well... you have no children, you see."

"Dear girl! You're not offering to bear my offspring, surely!" he cried incredulously, an amused smile quickly hidden behind his teacup at her reply.

"No!" she cried, leaping to her feet and knocking over her own cup, fortunately empty, as a violent blush colored every bit of exposed skin from the collar of her dress and up.

"Come, come, my dear. I should like to think that I'm not _that_ repulsive," he chuckled, but his eyes were serious. "Or does your concern stem from the belief that I might ask it of you in return for my generosity?"

"Well, yes," she lowered herself back into her chair. "I don't know how to say this without giving offense, but while I've always wanted children of my own some day, and know that often a woman is obliged to marry without certain feelings for her husband, I do not believe I could have ever allowed myself to be put in such a situation, even to be a mother. If I felt that you might demand it of me I never would have agreed to this, and the idea that you might change your mind..."

She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, looking more stubborn than regal with the color still in her cheeks and the feverish brightness in her eyes. "If you changed your mind, I should run away!"

"Margaret," he said slowly, taking her hand in both of his own, "you are the only child I could ever wish for. While a paper in a church says that you are my wife, I will always treat you as the daughter of my heart. I'm far too old and set in my ways to ever consider anything else. I've never been one to stand on convention, so don't you believe it's fitting that I have an unconventional marriage? We shall take care of each other with the faithful hearts we're accustomed to. My only regret, and I did not even consider it when I devised this master plan, is that I've put you in this delicate position. What if you should meet a man who might have given you these big eyed babies that you long for, and you miss him because you're bound to this foolish old man before you."

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment against a sudden wave of misery and she desperately tried to hide the violent emotion from that 'foolish old man' by rising quickly to put another kettle on the fire. Mr. Bell, foolish though he claimed to be, was also smart and very clever, and his keen awareness of all that occurred around him did not miss her reaction to his words, or her clumsy attempts to conceal it. He idly wondered if such a thing had ever happened to Mr. Hale, but of course, he never would have noticed. The man lived his entire life within his own mind, scarcely aware of his surroundings unless they conformed with all things that were peace and comfort. That simple facet of Richard's nature was the reason he had been so surprised by the decision to leave the church.

"Margaret," he said, leaning back in his chair and observing her movements from the corner of his eye. "am I mistaken to believe that you may have already met such a man?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Adam," she heaved the kettle in it's place over the fire and continued to stand before it.

"I don't believe I am," he replied slowly. "Mr. Thornton seemed very concerned about you when he was here the other night."

"He has been a good friend to us," she said shakily.

"Haven't you heard that a watched pot never boils? Come back over here where we can speak face to face. I dislike talking to your hairpins."

She obeyed meekly, lowering herself slowly into her chair but still unable to meet his eyes.

"Margaret?" he said in a tone of warning.

"Oh, what does it even matter?" she cried, leaping up once more, a white knuckled grip on the edge of the table. "He asked me to marry him at a time when I did not know him, was not even certain if I could like him, and I rejected him. Rudely! Coldly! Then when Frederick was here..."

"Frederick! Here?"

"Yes," she said in exasperation. "I thought father had told you. He was here when mamma died. There was an incident at the station and I was forced, by misguided fear and unsuspected cowardice, to lie to a police inspector and Mr. Thornton knew of it. He had seen me and Frederick at Outwood station that night, only he thought poor Fred was my lover!"

"This is grave news indeed. Pray, go on."

She began to pace the tiny kitchen. "I was brought quite low in his esteem over the lie, only realizing after losing it that his good opinion was more important to me than anyone else in my acquaintance. I despaired because the realization came far too late. I have not missed the man whom I could happily give children because of our attachment. I missed him because of my own foolish pride and misguided belief of superiority. Now, my only hope is that we should reach such a state in our acquaintance that he might think fondly of me when I cross his mind."

"A place in they memory, Dearest!  
Is all that I claim:  
To pause and look back when thou hearest  
The sound of my name.  
Another may woo thee, nearer  
Another may win and wear;  
I care not though he be dearer,  
If I am remember'd there."

-Mr. Bell quoted, staring into the shadows of the kitchen as though expecting someone to be hidden there. "It's a lovely poem by Gerald Griffin, my dear. Are you familiar with it?"

"I am," she said quietly, unsure if she was disturbed more by him quoting the very poem that she had been thinking of or the look on his face as he quoted it. For the first time, she wondered if there wasn't some tragic heartache behind Mr. Bell's decision to never marry.

"How could you have agreed to my foolish scheme while your heart was so engaged?" he asked suddenly, making a great effort to pull his eyes from the dark corner of the room to hers.

"You made a good argument." The sound of the kettle boiling drew her attention, but this time, she continued to speak while she tended to refilling the teapot. "I won't deny that the knowledge of never regaining Mr. Thornton's esteem made the acceptance easier. I will not settle for a man whom I should spend the rest of my days comparing to John Thornton. I do not believe that I compromised my resolve by consenting to our... arrangement. There is no way that I could ever compare the two of you and I have attached myself to a gentleman that I care about and admire, who respects me and encourages my independence."

Mr. Bell smiled indulgently, "You've attached yourself to a facetious old academic who obviously hasn't learned enough from his books."

"Yes. That, too," she laughed, catching the ball and lightly tossing it back. "You must admit that it's a far cry better than sitting in Harley Street, obliged to my aunt for her condescension, while nursing a broken heart and insisting to Edith that I shall never marry even though I believe she would throw me and her brother-in-law together at every available opportunity! I firmly believe that she was behind Henry asking me to marry him in Helston."

"Good Lord, Margaret! How many men have you turned down?"

She turned her head from her task and gave him a wry smile. "What is it they say, Adam? Third time's a charm?"

"Then I shall be forced to be as charming as I can manage," he replied, taking her hand when she reached for his cup. "Might I assume that Mr. Thornton now knows of Fredrick? You said he 'thought' Fred was your lover. Past tense."

He held her hand tightly, preventing her escape and held her eyes by sheer force of will. Slowly, she nodded her head.

"We spoke today after the funeral," she breathed, tears once more filling her eyes. God help her, would she ever again see a day without tears? "We argued and..."

The hopelessness that filled her eyes stabbed at Mr. Bell's heart and he had the strong desire to pull her into his arms and hold her, to caress her hair and lie to her, tell her that everything would be alright when he wasn't sure anything would be right again.

Instead, he asked, "Is there any hope that he might wait for you?"

"I could not ask that of him," she took a deep breath and brushed at her eyes with her free hand. "We've made our decision and, like it or not, must live it, as happily as we can manage."

"Quite right, my dear. I'm pleased to hear you say that." He looked anything but pleased as he gave her hand two hearty pats before withdrawing it. "Now, be a dear and refresh this old man's tea."

The corner of her mouth turned up as she remembered Mr. Thornton's harsh words from earlier. If 'as happily as she could manage' was keeping house for Mr. Bell, there were worse fates.

Mr Bell saw the expression and frowned. He would shortly be having a talk with Mr. Thornton.


	7. The Abyss of Lost Hope

**A/N: I know how pleased most of you have been with my quick updates on this story, but I'm afraid that I may have to disappoint you. I have to go out of town in a few days, for a couple of weeks. I will try to get another chapter up before I go, and hope that I get time to write while I'm away. It would be nice to continue to have something to post for you each day when I get back. Thank you all again for the amazing support I've received on this, and as always, please review. I love your reviews! **

A_ vast lake stretched before him in the night, lapping noiselessly at his feet, reflecting a multitude of stars and John felt that he was standing within the vast expanse of the sky and at any moment, he was going to fall through it. A noise of rusting branches from behind made him turn, and he discovered that the lake was on the edge of a great forest, stretching as endlessly behind him as the lake before. The noise came again, and it was then that he saw her. Margaret! Gliding through the trees wearing a robe of water and moonlight, a lantern in her hand and a beautiful snowy owl on her shoulder. _

_If he was very still, she might not see him, might not notice, might continue to make her way thinking herself unobserved for he was positive that if he moved, she would take flight, like some wild creature. If she ran, he would give chase. _

_Only she did run. _

_And he had let her go. _

_What had he been thinking, after seeing that deep expression of longing in her eyes, to let her go? To let her slip once more through his fingers when it was so clear to him now that he possessed her heart. Perhaps if he called to her, she might stay and anchor him, prevent him from falling into the clear, watery, star filled expanse that opened up at the edge of his heel. The beautiful, endless nothingness which beckoned to him and terrified him for in that terrible night sparkled all of his dreams, realized, unrealized. Each star was a single hope he had carried at some point in his life and he knew if he turned, took that single step, he would see as he fell each and every star blink out even as he reached out to grasp it. _

_Except for the star before him, picking her way carefully to the waters edge where she stood for the briefest of moments before turning her face and rubbing her cheek against the great owl's feathered wing, whispering to it, giving it a gentle nudge with her nose until it sprang from her shoulder with outstretched wing to fly high above the trees and disappear against a blazing full moon. _

_She turned to him then. Saw him. Smiled. _

_He took a step toward her and she did not run. She waited. _

_By the time he reached her, he was trembling from head to foot, aching just to touch her, to gently brush his thumb across her cheek and catch one of the diamond tears slipping from her eye in his palm where he might keep it, treasure it. Just one of those beautiful tears, he knew the tears were for him, might light his way if he fell. Just one. It would sustain him when all the other stars had disappeared. _

_The sound of church bells echoed across the lake, through the forest, seeming to carry words hidden within the deep, sonorous pulse. _

_'Do you love her?'_

_'Yes,' he cried silently to the inquisitive bells. _

_The sound seemed to come from everywhere and... no where and she was suddenly in front of him and the lake was to his back. She smiled sadly and there were no more tears. He had been too late. Always too late. _

_"Go home," she said, only her lips did not move and her voice blended with the chiming bells, echoing around him in a whisper. _

_'Do you love her?'_

_He shook his head violently, confused, reached for her with both arms and she placed her palms on his chest and pushed. _

_"Go home," Margaret, his Margaret, repeated as he was forced back, felt the water, icy and persistent, cling to his ankle, pulling him down and up, weightless and heavy into the abyss of lost hope._

Mr. Thornton clawed his way to consciousness through a tangle of damp sheets, breathing heavily as his eyes adjusted to the familiar darkness of his room, Margaret's dream image burned into the back of his eyelids where he saw her each time he blinked. Useless to attempt more sleep. Lighting a candle, he dressed quickly and quietly stole from the house. He needed space to breath, to think, and more than anything, he needed the comforting familiarity of the streets and buildings, the tangible reality that would ground him and keep him from losing himself in his wild imagination.

* * *

_Take kindly the counsel of the years,_  
_gracefully surrendering the things of youth._  
_Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune._  
_But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings._  
_Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness._  
_Beyond a wholesome discipline,_  
_be gentle with yourself._

_Max Ehrmann_

"Do you love her?" Mr. Bell demanded, marching into Mr. Thornton's office without bothering to knock.

Mr. Thornton was sitting at his desk, head resting in his palm, pouring over his ledgers as though attempting to divine the future in them, which wasn't far from the truth. The numbers held within these books were the final blow to the last shred of hope he had managed to cling to and the dream from the night before came forcefully back into his mind as he could almost feel the star burn out, leaving him cold. He shuddered. Margaret was lost to him and now he was losing his business. Contracts unfulfilled due to the strike had cost him clients, the clients that remained were late on making their payments, and they had entered a period of decline where the demand for cotton fabrics was lower than the cost to produce them. He had just enough to ensure the payroll for perhaps another three months.

If he dipped into his own personal accounts, he would have enough for another month or two, but there was no guarantee business would improve by then and he had Fanny's wedding to pay for. He also needed to make certain that there was enough left to provide for his mother when they were forced to leave here and he had to find a new situation. Each of these thoughts was another star blinking out in his mind and he gripped the edge of his desk to stop the sick, falling sensation in his stomach.

When Mr. Bell burst into his office glowing with fiery indignation, Mr. Thornton's first inclination was to get up and leave. He did not have the energy to verbally spar with this man, hardly had the energy to look up, and it was a moment before the curt words addressed to him registered. When they did, he dropped his hand heavily onto the desk, slowly put down his quill, and blinked in confusion at the uncharacteristic behavior of his landlord, and the uncanny way the words echoed through the room.

"I beg your pardon?" he managed after a long moment, after he had made certain this was real and not some insane hallucination from his lack of rest.

"Mar-ga-ret," Mr. Bell enunciated as though speaking to a dim minded individual. "Do you love her?"

He didn't have time for these cat and mouse games, was certainly not inclined to the be the mouse in his own office. "Mr. Bell, I'm very busy..."

"Just answer the bloody question, Thornton!" Mr. Bell shouted, slamming his fist upon the desk.

Mr. Thornton did not even flinch. He simply leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he narrowed his eyes at the man before him trembling with scarlet rage, discerning immediately a mad desperation shining from the clear blue eyes which were usually so inscrutable.

"Yes," he replied, shrugging his shoulders, refusing to say anything else on the matter. Mr. Bell continued to stare at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. At any other time, Mr. Thornton would have been amused to see the quick witted gentleman at a loss for words, but at this moment he did not feel that anything would ever amuse him again. "I've answered your question, Bell, and would be greatly obliged if you would leave. Like I said, I'm very busy..."

"Confound it all, Thornton," he cried, pushing away from the desk to falling gracelessly into the chair behind him. "Why couldn't you have married her when you had the chance and saved us all this trouble?"

The weariness that had been slowly consuming him for the past week fled in a surge of indignant anger at these words, at the disregard for his demand that Mr. Bell leave.

"She would not have me," Mr. Thornton said sharply as he leaped to his feet, intent on pulling Mr. Bell from his seat and dragging him from the office, uncaring that the man was his landlord, that he was a gentleman far above Mr. Thornton's station, that his position and age demanded every respect. In his growing anger and jealousy, at this moment in time, he only cared that this was the man whom Margaret had chosen over himself, whom Margaret allowed to purchase after saying that she would not be bought, not be any man's possession! He was halfway around the desk when the aging man burst into tears and seemed to crumple in on himself.

"Oh, Richard," Mr. Bell sobbed into his hands. "Why did you have to leave us? You know how incompetent I am with human affairs! I tried to do what was right, what you asked of me, but look at the horrible mess I've made of it."

Mr. Thornton's anger, which had come upon him like a storm, dissipated. The thought came to him, as he perched on the edge of his desk and observed Mr. Bell, that he ought to feel embarrassed at witnessing such emotion from a gentleman, but he could not feel anything at all. The icy rage that had consumed him a moment ago seemed to have left a layer of frost over his heart, but the coldness cleared his mind, allowed him to look more closely at the situation, made him determined to hear the man out.

Rational as he was, it did not take long for Mr. Bell to compose himself. Impatiently flicking away the last of his tears, he leaned back and took a deep breath before looking up at the younger man.

"So what are we going to do about this unfortunate situation?" he said briskly, with no apology for the spectacle of sobbing like a woman.

A decanter of brandy sat beside the ledgers with a half filled glass which Mr. Thornton picked up, taking a healthy swallow before answering in a resigned voice, "There is nothing to be done."

He gestured toward the bottle with glass in a silent offer but was waved off.

"Come, Come, Thornton," Mr. Bell said, impatiently. "I refuse to allow you to give up so easily. Are you prepared to wait for her?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Bell," he scoffed, the alcohol thawing the frost on his emotions and leaving a bitter anguish in it's wake. "She married you, is prepared to devote the best years of her youth and energy to..."

"Year," Mr. Bell cut across him.

Mr. Thornton's eyebrows shot up.

"I'm dying," was the blithe reply to the unspoken question. "Margaret does not know. I haven't had the heart to tell her with everything that's happened, but it will be become apparent soon enough, I should think. That's why I'm here, Thornton. I'm taking Margaret to Spain to visit her brother. They've each been orphaned, are bearing it alone, and desperately need each other right now. What I need to know is if it's worth the time and effort to bring her back... or should I make arrangements to leave her in Spain?"

"Are you certain?" Mr. Thornton asked, feeling it a rather stupid question, but he couldn't help but worry about what this might do to Margaret.

"Quite certain," Mr. Bell sighed. "It's been an issue that has plagued me for a while and I finally decided to see my doctor. The prognosis was less than desirable, to be sure, but at least I am at liberty to set my affairs in order before I go. To that end, I insist you answer my question."

The memory of Margaret, wide eyes filled with longing... and horror, running swiftly away from him at the knowledge of his continued affections leaped into his mind as fresh hope seemed to fill that place in his heart which he felt would be forever more deprived of it's excruciating presence. '_No, I dare not hope.'_

"It's no longer a matter of my obvious willingness to wait for her, Mr. Bell. I've never been tempted by a woman before Margaret, and the idea of settling for anyone else fills me with disgust, but even if Margaret's heart has changed toward me, I'm no longer in a position to care for her." He gestured vaguely toward the ledgers beside his hip, "the business has failed. I was unable to recoup the losses from the strike."

"Oh posh," Mr. Bell waved dismissively. "That's the easiest matter to overcome yet! How much do you need?"

Mr. Thornton slammed the glass down onto the desk so heard both men were surprised it didn't break, but it failed to lessen his indignation. "I am in no need of your charity, and..."

"You would not refuse an investment, surely," Mr. Bell cut across him again, for the fourth time. "Come, come, I insist. It would help you and, more importantly, it would please Margaret. She would be devastated if she learnt the mill had failed with all those poor workers turned out, fretting endlessly over that friend of hers, Higgins. Don't be a damned fool, Thornton. I have neither the time nor the inclination to find another tenant and I have every confidence in you to pull the factory out of this decline given additional resources. I should be dead by that time, but Margaret should profit nicely. Now, how much do you need or shall I abscond with your ledgers and figure it out myself? Do save my tired old eyes the trouble."

Mr. Thornton sighed and rolled his eyes. "It will take nearly eleven thousand pounds to keep the mill running until the next quarter."

"Only that? I shall inform my banker that I wish to invest eighteen. That should give you the capital to do more than merely keep the business running, as you say." A mischievous light came into his eyes. "I was speaking to that man Higgins at the funeral yesterday. I say, Thornton, he's a strange fellow. Not like these Milton workers at all, with their bitter resentment of the mill masters."

"He's a good worker, a good man," Mr. Thornton smiled, for the first time in weeks. Not since the last time he had seen Higgins, little Johnny bouncing on his knee while Tom recited the lessons he had learnt at the school Mr. Thornton was sending him to. "We've come to an understanding of sorts, and I consider him a friend. Somehow I seem to have gained his respect, and through him, the respect of several other hands It's because of these men that I've kept up as well as I have until now."

"Respect?" came the incredulous response. "The man practically glowed with pride. One might think him a proud mother hen to hear him speak!"

"Yes, well, that's Higgins for you. He has a brain and I let him use it." Mr. Thornton shook his head in silent mirth as he moved around the desk and reclaimed his chair. "Now, I've answered your questions; answer one of mine. Why have you never married before now, Bell?"

"Oh, the usual," he smiled enigmatically. "I think I will take that drink after all."

Mr. Thornton retrieved another glass and filled it, a wry smile creasing the edge of his lips. "I'm not entirely certain what 'the usual' is."

Staring into the glass as he swirled the amber liquid, Mr. Bell's own smile faded. "Unrequited love, Thornton. What else?"

"I'll accept your offer.. on one condition."

After taking a healthy swallow, Mr. Bell replied, "Name it."

"Bring Margaret home."

Leaning back in his chair, Mr. Thornton tilted his head back and closed his eyes as all of the stars rekindled, the glazing sparks filling his previously dark thoughts with unanticipated warmth. It was dangerous to hope, but he realized today that it was deadly not to.


	8. The Present Needs Must Fear

**A/N: I had some unanticipated time today so I thought I'd leave you with this before I disappeared on you. I did say that I would try to get another chapter in before I left. You deserve it for the amazing reviews. I value every thought, wish, and storyline prediction! Lexie2 and KT8812, your concerns will be addressed as the story progresses. I assure you that I have considered both the annulment issue and Mr. Bell's emotional break in front of Mr. Thornton and both play into this AU. Regarding Mr. Bell, the scene in Thornton's office was mostly a nod to the book based on the emotional display when he informed Mr. Thornton about Mr. Hale's death, and cried in front of him. Either way, none of this has been easy on our implacable Oxford academic and it is taking it's toll. Mfhenry... shhhhh, Margaret doesn't know and we mustn't tell her yet! **

_Can it be! of stars the star,_  
_Do I press thee to my heart?_  
_In the night of distance far,_  
_What deep gulf, what bitter smart!_  
_Yes, 'tis thou, indeed at last,_  
_Of my joys the partner dear!_  
_Mindful, though, of sorrows past,_  
_I the present needs must fear._

_-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe_

The waning moon rested on the crest of the horizon, spilling it's light across the seemingly endless expanse of ocean as the ship rocked gently upon the waves. The hour was late, possibly too late for a young woman to be standing at the prow alone, but Magaret could not sleep, could not even rest in the small quarters she shared with Dixon for that virtuous woman was taken with seasickness. She had fared well enough until they met a squall earlier in the day, the first of the long journey. Completely overcome by the ship's violent pitching, she had yet to recover and was being tended by Mr. Bell's servant, Wallis. That poor young man! He had his hands full for Mr. Bell was hardly fairing any better, though seasickness was not his complaint.

What had begun as a mild headache two days ago with an increase in Mr. Bell's usual querulous attitude regarding his diet had escalated into severe stomach pains and a raging fever. His condition frightened her as he writhed about, tangling the sheets and muttering disjointed phrases, most of which seemed to be directed at her parents. It was clear that he wanted Margaret's father to forgive him for something and she could only hope it wasn't their marriage. If guilt was tormenting him to an early grave, she would never forgive herself for agreeing to this. As it was, Margaret and Wallis had been taking turns with each of their charges until a dose of laudanum offered by the ship's captain, only just hearing of the illness that evening at dinner, settled Mr. Bell into a restless sleep and she managed to slip away for a moment's respite with the gentle assurances of Wallis that he would send word when her husband awoke. The salty breeze tugging at her hair and skirts refreshed her, as did the view of a multitude of stars blazing above and the gentle lap of water against the hull.

They would port in Cadiz tomorrow, or rather, later today. Margaret was unsure of the time. She only knew the hope that a doctor might quickly be had and the anticipation of seeing her brother once more, trying to focus on the man she was sailing toward and not the man she had left behind. A pang of guilt stabbed at her, thinking of Mr. Thornton when her husband was in such terrible pain in the quarters below, concerned that the disclosure of her attachment to the manufacturer might be responsible for the illness. Mr. Bell had given her so much and asked for so little, had taken her under his wing, had spent the evenings after dinner going over a carpet bag of papers as he taught her how to manage the fortune and properties that would someday be hers. Since that night over tea in the kitchen in Crampton, he had been acting differently. She would catch him looking at her out of the corner of his eye with a pensive expression, as though there were something he wished to tell her and couldn't find the words. When she asked, he would become unaccountably emotional and beg her to leave him. The matter of the documents disturbed her the most for he was adamant that she learn what they meant, and quickly.

The suspicion that something was terribly wrong was growing with each passing day and she fervently wished he would confide in her. It reminded her too strongly of the early days of her mother's illness. If there was anything she could do to spare him this suffering, she would not hesitate to offer it. He was the one holding her together. He had given her someone to care for, to divert her thoughts from the terrible losses she had suffered in such rapid succession, and another loss, so soon, especially if she were responsible, was unbearable. She would see him alive for as long as possible even though the man her heart cried for, that was always at the edge of her thoughts no matter how much she tried distance herself, had promised to wait for her.

_The evening before they were to catch their train found Margaret at the kitchen table staring wearily into her teacup, listening to the heavy thump on the floorboards as Mr. Bell paced her father's study. He was severely agitated at the storm which blew through Milton, the wind howling through the windows and streaking the sky with wide, consuming blooms of lightening._

_"If this keeps up, the sea will be too rough for travel," he muttered, almost to himself though he addressed her. "I have to get you to Spain while there's still time. Confound it all, I'm running out of time!" _

"_Adam," she smiled encouragingly, taking his arm and stilling his movements, "it will be alright. If the storm persists, we can postpone the journey. It would be foolish to travel in such conditions."_

_"Time and tide wait for no man," he quoted then fairly collapsed into the nearest chair. "Chaucer, my darling girl. And I must get you to your brother so that you may bear each other up through this miserable affair. I did promise." _

_"If he must grieve alone for a few days, we will be there soon enough." _

_Her assurances had mollified him for a while and he moved to settle into her father's old chair by the fire until a great clap of thunder startled him to his feet once more and he began to pace, more impatiently than before, as the rain struck, pounding the roof in a deafening roar. Nothing she said would calm him, she could not understand his distress, so when he asked to be alone she glided from the room and carefully closed the study door before racing down the stairs to the kitchen where she finally allowed her frustrated tears to spring into her eyes as she put the kettle on, hoping tea might settle them both, indulging in the first cup alone. _

_At first, she didn't hear the knock, it blended seamlessly with the sounds of wind and rain. When the knock became a rapid boom, she started to her feet and approached the door cautiously. Dixon was long ago in bed, though how the woman could sleep with all the noise was beyond her, and she didn't want to distress Mr. Bell more with a visitor, though she had no idea who it might be... unless it was Nicolas. Was something wrong with Mary or one of the children? Or was it Mary and something had happened to her father? These thoughts spurred her to action and she leaped forward, grasped the doorknob and pulled, but the door would not open. _

"_Push," she cried, tugging at the handle, hoping the late night visitor could hear and praying that it wasn't some violent intruder."The door is stuck!" _

_With a mighty tug on her end and a shove from the other, the rain swollen door finally gave way. She was unprepared for it and fell backwards gracelessly onto the floor, found herself with a great weight on her legs and water dripping coldly into her face as she stared up into startled, steel gray eyes. _

"_Mr. Thornton?" she gasped, hands instinctively going to his chest and shoving as she struggling to free herself for he had tumbled through the door on top of her. At least he had thrown out his arms and caught the brunt of his weight on his hands, which lay flat to the floor on each side of her head, or she might have been crushed! Keenly aware of the indignity of their position, she pushed against him once more but he did not budge, only continued to stare at her with wide eyes. Without his cooperation, it was a losing battle and she ceased her frantic, mortified attempts at liberty as she raised her eyes to his once more._

_And her heart stopped. _

_She attempted to speak, but his left hand moved to her face, thumb caressing her bottom lip before his fingers tangled in her hair. The look in his eyes was tender madness and suddenly his mouth was on hers and she found herself melting into him, on the floor of the entryway, his tongue sliding against her lips seeking entrance which she granted as her arms slipped up his shoulders, wound around his neck, pulling him closer. She could taste the rain, and she could taste tears, though whether his or her own was impossible to tell, and the only thing she was aware of was that she wanted this. She wanted him. This man was where her future should lie and, for a moment, she allowed herself to fall into the dream, for surely it must be, that they were the only two in the world, that nothing else existed except this overwhelming need for each other._

_The sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps moving steadily toward the top of the stairs startled her back to reality, to the unseemliness of the situation, to the still open door and the torrential rain blowing in on them. _

"_Mr. Thornton," she gasped, for he still made no move to get up, staring at her lips as though spellbound. "Please, I can't breath."_

_She saw the moment awareness sprang into his mind and he hastily clambered to his feet, slipping in the puddles of water surrounding them as he helped her up as well._

"_Margaret?" Mr. Bell called down the steps. "Is everything alright? I thought I heard some sort of commotion!" _

"_It's only Mr. Thornton," she called back breathlessly, smoothing her hands over her skirt and going to the foot of the stairs where she wouldn't have to shout."We had a bit of a trial with the door. It's swollen by the rain, you see, and we took a bit of a tumble getting it open. All is well!"_

_When her husband beckoned to her, she turned back to look at Mr. Thornton, who continued to stand dripping in the open doorway, wearing a dazed expression, looking more like a lost child than the formidable mill master._

_"Close the door," she mouthed silently, before ascending the steps. _

"_Margaret," Mr. Bell said in a low voice when she reached him. "I'm afraid my nerves are still too raw to entertain visitors just now. Would you make my apologies to Mr. Thornton? I can't imagine what brings him here on such a night, and I know it's terribly rude, but would you see to his comfort? I believe that I shall take myself off to bed. The storm doesn't seem quite so violent now." _

_A tingling fear at the thought of being alone once more with Mr. Thornton made her shiver. She obviously could not trust herself with him, not now when her heart was full to breaking of leaving Milton, leaving him, leaving her parents to their cold and lonely graves, but how could she explain that to poor Mr. Bell? He obviously trusted her, was perfectly willing to leave her alone with the man he knew had a claim on her heart, but then his nerves were badly unsettled and perhaps he too was not thinking clearly. She determined herself to be strong and assured Mr. Bell that she would faithfully attend their unexpected guest. _

"_Get some rest, Adam," she forced herself to smile brightly, taking his hand and squeezing it affectionately in her still trembling fingers. "Storms like these blow through quickly and usually leave behind a glorious day in their wake. I wish you wouldn't fret so."_

"_An old man's prerogative, dear girl," he returned her smile. "Now I shall fret of you catching your death of cold. You're quite damp! Go and warm yourself by the kitchen fire, and if you bring Mr. Thornton up to the study, make sure he's dry himself! Dixon will have my eyes if water, and God knows what else, is tracked across your dear mother's rugs!" _

_Margaret laughed and shooed him down the hall, taking a deep breath before returning to the kitchen where she found Mr. Thornton by the fire, staring into the flames, momentarily unaware of her presence which she took advantage of to silently observe him. Every inch the master once more, he stood tall and forbidding with his arm resting on the hearth mantle, brow creased in deep thought, lips set in the usual stern line. She raised her fingers to her own, still tasting the rain and the man upon them. Would he apologize to her? She hoped not, for she would then be compelled to return the apology, and as much as she tried to summon the emotion of regret, she could not find it. She would be leaving tomorrow. It might be the last time she saw him. She wanted to hold onto the memory, to that one moment when he was hers and she was his, no misunderstandings, no secrets... no one standing between them. _

"_You ran away," he said quietly and she started, unaware that she had been noticed. Slipping fully into the kitchen, she approached him tentatively, joined him in the contemplation of the fire. _

_After several moment of silent reinforcement of her resolve to not pull him into her arms once more and lose herself in the feel of his heart beating frantically against hers, lose herself in his strength and tender passion, she managed to reply hoarsely, "I did." _

"_I did not mean..." he began, but she cut across him._

"_Don't."_

_She was watching his face intently, frowned when his eyebrows raise in surprise. _

"_Excuse me?" he blinked in confusion, voice cold, slowly pivoting on his heel to face her. _

_Margaret was reminded forcefully of the day he proposed, and she winced at the memory, at the parallel to this moment, but it could not be helped. She heard herself say,"Please don't continue. I could not bear it if you apologized for what just happened."_

_He felt the similarity as well, though her plea that he not apologize and the defiant boldness in the haughty upturn of her chin surprised him and a tiny smile turned the edge of his lips. "I wasn't going to, though I'm sure you will agree that those were not the actions of a gentleman." _

"_No, they were not," she admitted, color coming into her cheeks, "but I did not respond as a lady and I'm... I am not sorry for it. I'm not entirely certain what happened or how we came to find ourselves in such a position, at such an unguarded moment, but I find that I do not regret it and have no wish to. I am leaving tomorrow for Spain, but I would have you know that I'm leaving my heart here, with you. My heart, I believe, expressed itself quite eloquently... I should think."_

_This last was said with trembling uncertainly and the blush deepened as his smile grew. _

_His voice, spoken in such low, warm notes, vibrated through her. "I was going to apologize for upsetting you... after the funeral. I did not mean to speak as I did, but the memory of your countenance when you realized that I still..."_

_Swallowing thickly, he turned from her and moved to the table, running his fingers over the smooth porcelain teapot. _

_"Realized that you still cared for me?" she prompted, wanting to go to him, not daring to move._

_A sound very near to a moan escaped his throat as he nodded, then shook his head violently. "No, Margaret, when you realized that I still love you. All of my foolish passions are still firmly in place, and sometimes I feel they might destroy me for want of you! The storm made me restless tonight and all I could see in each flash of lightning was your expression just before you ran. I could not wait, refused to allow time to slip away only to realize once again that I was too late! I came here to see if I had misread you, to see if I had once again misunderstood your intentions. I came here to tell you..."_

_Finally managing to force her legs into action, she came to stand by him, to lay a hand encouragingly on his as it continued to trace the lines of the teapot. He turned his hand, wrapped his long fingers around hers, raised their joined hands to his face and placed her palm to his cheek. He sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm not a patient man. I know you think me offensive... and uncouth..."_

_"No!" she gasped, but he placed his fingers over her lips, silencing her._

_"Please, let me finish," he whispered. "I'm not a patient man, but I came here tonight to __tell you that I will never love any woman as I love you, Margaret Hale... for Margaret Hale you shall always be to me until the day you become Margaret Thornton. I will wait for that day; be it a year, be it ten. I will wait for that day as long as you promise to look back when you're gone, look back and someday... someday come back... to me."_

_She could only nod, blinking back tears and he sighed deeply, pulling her into his arms once more, holding her tightly and she could again feel his heart pounding in a violent counter rhythm to hers. A delicious silence was left in the wake of his words and this time there was no flavor of rain to be had in the budding memory; only the taste of mutual tears, of promises, and of a bittersweet goodbye._

How had he known she was leaving? The thought, which she had never considered before, wrinkled her normally smooth brow as she scowled at the rising moon as though it were keeping the secret from her. Had Mr. Bell been to see him? He was too unwell to ask at the moment, but when he got better - for he would get better - they would need to have a long discussion. The same feeling of dread she had experienced over her mother gripped her lungs and she took deep breaths against the sudden panic. What if he did not get better? She would never be able to return to Milton, to even look at Mr. Thornton again, if Mr. Bell died because of her foolishness, because of some unconscious desire in her heart to be free of him. She would never wish for such a thing! Even if it wasn't the way a wife was supposed to care for her husband, she did love for him, was happy to tend him...

It would be like losing her father all over again.

'"Mrs. Bell?" a voice came timidly from behind her and she brushed at her eyes before turning to face the owner, finding Wallis there with his cap being crushed between his hands.

"Is my husband awake?"

"Yes, ma'am," he brushed the edge of his cap nervously. "He seems to be doing much better now, but he's asked for you. I thought you might also like to know that Miss Dixon has finally settled and is resting comfortably, though she's in your bed."

He looked very scandalized at this and Margaret couldn't help but laugh as a wave of relief washed through her. "It's alright, Wallis. Poor Dixon has had a very rough day so we'll allow her this liberty. Just this once."

"But where are you to sleep, ma'am?" he gasped, falling into step beside her as she glided across the deck to the door which would take them down to their quarters.

Laughing again, she savored the sensation of her amusement, astonished by it on such a night, after such dark thoughts. "Mr. Wallis, if our dear Mr. Bell wishes to talk, surely you must realize that Dixon will be quite refreshed before he releases me."

"He can go on, can't he?" came the instant, unconscious reply, and Margaret saw her companion blush deeply before daring a nervous glance at her face. Seeing her eyes bright with suppressed mirth, he relaxed and even allowed himself to laugh with her.

They both needed it after the trying day.


End file.
